The Wreck of the Margot
by Christine Morgan
Summary: Villains and gargoyles crash (literally) Brendan's sister's birthday party. #34 in an ongoing saga.


The Wreck of the Margot   
by Christine Morgan   
christine@sabledrake.com / http://www.christine-morgan.org   


* * *

Author's Note: as usual, the characters of Gargoyles belong to Disney  
and are used here without permission. Chas and Eric were created by  
Christi Hayden, my spirit-sister and psychic twin. I know nothing about  
boats, so I'd like to apologize in advance for the bloopers I'm sure are  
contained herein. 

#34 in an ongoing saga.   


* * *

  
"Are they closed?"  
"Yes, they are," Margot Yale snapped. "What's taking so  
long?"  
"I just want to make sure everything's ready," Brendan  
Vandermere replied, glancing at her to be sure that her eyes were,  
indeed, closed. He parked the Lexus. "Don't peek yet!"  
"I hate surprises, Brendan."  
"You'll like this one!" He hurried around and opened her door.  
She let him help her out, her nose wrinkling as she sniffed the cold air.  
"Where are we, a fish market?"  
"Not quite. Now, you can look!"  
For once in his life he'd managed to stun his wife speechless.  
She didn't know the first thing about boats, but even she was  
bound to be impressed by the sleek, pure white majesty of the 180-foot  
yacht. And its name, written in gold-edged letters three feet high: THE  
MARGOT.  
"Oh, my God, Brendan, how much did you spend?"  
He told her, and she staggered on her high heels and had to  
clutch the side of the car for balance.  
"Isn't she a beauty?" he asked proudly. "I can't think of a better  
use for the money my great-uncle left me."  
"You hate sailing," she said when she'd finished gasping for  
breath. "When my father took you out on his boat --"  
"A different situation entirely. That was a sailboat. This is a  
yacht, only one step removed from a luxury liner. Our own cruise ship,  
Margot my darling."  
"What in the world are we going to do with a yacht? Commute  
by sea from Boston to Manhattan?"  
"For starters," he said with a grin, "it'll be the perfect place to  
host my sister's twenty-first birthday party."  
Her eyes narrowed in speculation and he pressed on eagerly.  
"Can't you just see it, Margot? All the best people, boarding  
our private yacht for a cruise out to Grafton Point. Twelve-piece  
orchestra. That caterer you've been dying to have an excuse to hire. And  
you, the gracious hostess, wearing these." He handed her a black velvet  
box.  
She opened it, and gasped anew at the sight of the Vandermere  
emeralds. "Brendan!"  
"I didn't tell you, but Great-Uncle Cuthburt left those to me,  
along with the money. I can't wait to see you wear them."  
In a very uncharacteristic display, she threw her arms around  
him. Even though she was wearing a full-length fur and he was bundled  
up in a cashmere topcoat, he felt the supple curves of her body against  
his, and knew there was one rich boy that was going to be getting some  
sugar tonight. And they said money couldn't buy happiness!  
"So, what do you say?" he murmured against her smooth  
cheek. "Is it worth putting up with Tiffy for one evening?"  
"Not to mention that trophy wife of your father's," she said  
snidely, but he knew he'd won.  
"Yes, mustn't forget her." He laughed. "If Dad hadn't married  
her, _he_ would have been the one to inherit! But, since Great-Uncle  
Cuthburt would rather die all over again than let Ginny get her hands on  
dime one of his money, you and I benefit!"  
She possessively stroked the velvet box. "Will Clive be upset  
if I'm wearing the emeralds? Won't he think Ginny should have them?"  
"I can handle my dad. At the most, he'll make some remark  
like --" he huffed haughtily and pretended to peer through a monocle --  
"they _are_ the Vandermere emeralds, after all, and if the Vandermere  
_name_ isn't good enough for you ..."  
"Oh, don't. I'll hear enough of that from him! You'd think I'm  
the first woman in history to keep her maiden name!"  
"Not only that, my darling, but you insist on working, and we  
have failed to produce an heir to the illustrious Vandermere line." He  
nuzzled her neck and she let him for a moment, then pulled away.  
"If your sister kept her maiden name, then there would be  
more Vandermeres," she smirked.  
Brendan shook his head. "Not Tiffy. She can't wait to land  
herself a rich husband. Which reminds me, you'll have to make sure  
your nephew comes to the party so she can show him off to all her  
friends."  
"I'm sure Chas will be happy to attend. What a shame that we'll  
forget to invite his sister."  
"What a shame," he echoed, and they shared a smile. "I know  
Tiffy will be just _devastated_ if Birdie isn't there. Now, come on, let  
me show you around."  
  
* *  
  
Clive Vandermere tapped his pipe thoughtfully against the arm  
of his chair. "It is a pretty dress, precious, but it seems, shall we say, a  
bit old for you."  
Tiffany Ann Vandermere rolled her eyes dramatically. "Dad-  
dy! I'm not a little girl anymore! I'm going to be twenty-one! You  
promised me any dress I wanted, you did!"  
"I rather thought you'd fancy something frillier."  
"This is a FoxFire Fashions original! They don't come in  
'frilly'! Please, Daddy, pleeeeeeease?"  
The dress in question was a not-quite-brain-searingly-vivid  
fuschia number with a snug black bodice. Not only was the neckline  
exceedingly low, but black-edged diamond cutouts ran from hem to hip  
and from wrist to shoulder.  
"It's not the most modest of things, now, is it?" Clive mused.  
"You bought Ginny a FoxFire. And she's only six years older  
than me!"  
He refused to rise to the bait. "That color is terribly bright. A  
nice rose pink suits you much better."  
"Rose pink is for babies," she declared. "Muffy and Babs --"  
He waved a hand to silence her. "To forestall a lengthy lecture  
on what your friends are wearing and how much better than me their  
fathers are, you may have the dress. It does look stunning on you.  
You're the image of your mother when she was your age."  
She preened at the compliment and turned to the mirror over  
the mantle, sweeping up her hair and trying a few styles to see what  
went best with the dress. "I bet Mommy's black pearl earrings would  
look _so_ gorgeous ..."  
Clive shook his head. "Now, Tiffany, you know I gave those to  
Ginny."  
She spun to face him. "You give her everything! It's not fair!"  
"On this, I'm inflexible," he stated, and to prove the finality of  
it, he lit up his pipe and opened the Wall St. Journal.  
  
* *  
  
"Oh, no," Charles Winthrop Yale III groaned as he sorted the  
mail.  
Eric glanced up. "Another bill, Chas? In trouble with the Visa  
people?"  
"Worse."  
"Draft notice?"  
"Worse." He held up a snazzy gold and black envelope. "Aunt  
Margot strikes again. They're throwing a party for her husband's sister  
on their new yacht."  
"Sounds fancy."  
Chas nodded soberly. "Large prawns do not qualify as finger  
lobster."  
Eric just looked at him. Chas had a quirky sense of humor, so  
it was sometimes hard to tell when he was joking or what the joke was.  
"Can't you get out of it?" he finally asked.  
"Not a chance." He tossed the invitation on his desk and shook  
his head. "Aunt Margot's got to put on a good show for all her  
Vandermere in-laws. Dad will want me to go make nice with the rich  
people. Never too soon to start making connections and helping my  
career."  
"And your mom will have your dance card already full of  
debutantes," Eric finished with a knowing nod.  
Chas groaned again. "You don't know the half of it. Uncle  
Brendan's sister, Tiffy, has had a crush on me for as long as I can  
remember. And since Tiffy does, so do Muffy and Babs."  
"Tiffy, Muffy, and Babs?" Eric repeated, then laughed. "What  
are they, cartoon rabbits?"  
"No, serious!" Chas said. "They're weird! I mean it. Sincerely  
weird. The three of them, they've been inseperable since grade school.  
They even _look_ alike. Identical! Except that Tiffy's blonde, Babs has  
black hair, and Muffy -- well, she says it's platinum blond, but it looks  
white to me!"  
  
* *  
  
"Well, thank God she isn't coming," Muffy said, carefully  
beginning the second coat of polish on her toenails. "I just know she'd  
ruin everything."  
"She would," Tiffy agreed. "You two weren't at Tina  
Diamant's summerhouse last year, but Ginny made me go -- ooh, I hate  
that woman! How dare she tell me what to do when she's not even my  
mother? Anyway, some of us were playing with a Ouija board, totally  
innocuous stuff, right? I'd asked it to tell me what my future held, and it  
was spelling out 'a rich man,' at least, that's what it was trying to spell,  
except it missed the 'i' and pointed to a 'g' instead of an 'n', and then in  
comes Birdie."  
"What was she wearing?" Babs asked disdainfully.  
"Goodwill's spring line? Or something from the sale rack at Lane  
Bryant?"  
"She is _such_ a cow," Muffy remarked. "How can you stand  
being related to her?"  
"I'm not related to her," Tiffy protested. "She's my brother's  
wife's niece, that's all. But she comes in, dragging another one of those  
Sterling Academy rejects, who sees the Ouija board and starts going on  
about how we shouldn't be messing with things we don't understand. It  
was _so_ second-rate!"  
"What was her problem?" Babs asked. "Was she afraid you  
were going to call up Dracula?"  
"Who knows? We were just having fun. But she spooked Tina,  
so then nobody wanted to play anymore."  
"Well, who cares about Birdie?" Muffy switched feet and  
brushed at a strand of silvery-white hair that had escaped the towel she  
wore turban-like around her head. "What I want to know is if Chas is  
coming to the party."  
Tiffy smiled. "Oh, he'll be there, but don't go getting any ideas!  
I saw him first!"  
"He likes me better," Babs pointed out, primping her shining  
black tresses.  
"He likes me best of all," Muffy said.  
"When he sees my dress," Tiffy predicted, "you'll both be as  
good as invisible!"  
  
* *  
  
"And let me remind you again, Raymond, large prawns do  
_not_ qualify as finger lobster!" Margot hung up the phone and turned  
to Brendan. "I swear, if he fouls up a single thing --"  
"Now, darling, relax. He's the best in Boston."  
"Yes, but I still can't forget your father's wedding."  
"Who can?" Brendan muttered wryly. "Honestly, do you think  
anyone remembers the lobster business? With everything else that  
happened that night?"  
She fixed him with a cool glare. "_I_ remember the lobster  
business, and you can be sure that all of your father's friends do, too.  
Those people don't miss a thing, Brendan."  
"Darling, it was years ago --"  
"As far as the Boston bluebloods are concerned, the American  
Revolution was years ago. Your father's wedding was yesterday! And  
not a function goes by that _someone_ doesn't mention that so-called  
lobster!"  
"Everything's going to be perfect," he said. "Why not just relax  
and enjoy the party?"  
"Relax? When there's still so much to do?"  
"I didn't mean for this to all fall on your head."  
"Well, who else is going to do it? Ginny? With her room-  
temperature I.Q.? I'm sure she couldn't tell the difference between  
finger lobster and fish sticks with a road map and a guide dog!"  
"Margot, darling, settle down! You push yourself too hard.  
The party is going to be perfect. I promise. Absolutely perfect."  
  
* *  
  
"You're sure this is going to work?"  
"Look, if you're so worried about it, why don't you make the  
arrangements?"  
"Don't take that tone with me," he said.  
The smaller man rolled his eyes. "Yeah, sure, whatever. I'm  
just trying to tell you my people know what they're doing."  
"It seems too risky."  
"Getting cold feet now? Hey, if you want to cut and run, that's  
fine with me. I'll keep all the money for myself."  
"You owe me," the big man snarled. "If not for me, you'd still  
be sitting in your prison cell."  
"I had just as much to do with organizing that breakout as you  
did!"  
They glared at each other for a moment, then the big man  
manufactured a wide smile. "We don't have to like each other, but we  
make a good team."  
"Yeah, we would if you'd trust me for a change. Now, listen.  
The captain is one of mine. He'll see to it that the weapons are stowed  
on board, and once the passengers are nice and liquored up, he'll take  
the boat around past the lighthouse. I've got another dozen on board --  
waiters, musicians, that sort of thing."  
"Good, good. How do you and I get aboard?"  
"Speedboat. It's small and quick, so we should be able to get  
alongside without anybody noticing. It'll be too cold for these spoiled  
rich people to be out on deck. They'll be inside. This is a rocket-grapnel  
with retractable cable, hooks to a special belt. Point it, shoot it, pow!  
and up you go."  
"Ah. Just like your Batman."  
"Huh?"  
"Batman, the great American superhero."  
"Yeah, whatever. Anyway, once we're on board, we round up  
the rich people and help ourselves to their cash and jewelry, maybe  
some fur coats. Once we've done that, we'll swing around and  
rendezvous with your men."  
"In the Coast Guard vessel."  
"Exactly. Then the captain plots a course straight out into the  
Atlantic, and disables the controls and the radio. Hours at least before  
they get help, and by then we'll be in the clear. We should walk away  
from this job with enough money to finance both of our businesses."  
"What about the woman?"  
"What woman?"  
"Yale. The D.A. She was the one that put me away. I'd like to  
thank her personally."  
"Right! I've had a few run-ins with that bitch myself! Okay, so  
maybe we grab a hostage. Think we could get a ransom for her?"  
The big man spit on the ground. "Pah! Her husband would  
probably thank us! And I'm not interested in ransom."  
"Okay, suit yourself," he said, shrugging.  
"Are you sure this captain of yours can be counted on to do his  
job?"  
"Glasses? Are you kidding me? He's the most loyal man I've  
got! You're getting paranoid!"  
"I prefer the term 'cautious.' I have no desire to end up back in  
prison," Tomas Brode said.  
"That's why we're going to do this right," Tony Dracon replied.  
  
* *  
  
"Charlotte! I'm so glad you could make it!"  
"Lovely boat, Margot. Do you have a wireless fax machine?  
Something's come up at the office. Oh, this is my husband, Drew." She  
returned her attention to a cordless phone. "No, Johnathan, you're going  
to have to get those files to Mr. Yamaguchi by Monday! I don't care  
how you do it!"  
Margot directed her to the fax machine, then checked yet again  
to be sure the buffet was in order. Not a finger lobster out of place.  
They _were_ finger lobster, tender and succulent, and the buttery  
dipping sauce was free of greasy film.  
The guests were arriving, in a parade of sleek luxury cars that  
made the valet attendants' eyes sparkle with automotive lust. The  
coatroom was a forest of mink, sable, and fox. Already, people were  
mingling and chatting, the men in tuxedoes, the women in evening  
gowns and brilliant jewelry.  
But no jewelry was more brilliant than the Vandermere  
emeralds. She'd chosen a simple black Dior gown and pinned her hair  
up, so there was nothing to distract from the necklace. The central  
emerald was the size of a half-dollar, surrounded by diamond-encrusted  
gold, and progressively smaller emeralds marched the rest of the way  
around her throat. The earrings were perhaps a little too big, a little too  
flashy, but they caught the light wonderfully.  
She drifted over to Brendan as he was greeting one of his old  
friends from college, a dapper and fastidious blond man with thinning  
hair.  
"I'm so sorry that Meris couldn't attend," he was apologizing as  
Margot joined them. "But she got stung by a bee and swelled up to a  
size four, and simply _won't_ leave the house."  
"Here comes Dad," Brendan murmured. "I can't wait to see the  
look on his face when he spots the emeralds."  
Clive Vandermere, who had the distinguished silver hair and  
photogenic features of a man who could easily and successfully run for  
high office, came up the gangplank. His second wife Ginny was  
showing the smile must have made her dentist a wealthy man, cooing  
and clinging to Clive's arm as she slithered along in a dress that looked  
like liquid fire.  
"I don't believe it, she's not showing the assets that made her  
Miss Boston Tea Party of 1994," Margot observed, noting the lack of  
plunging neckline.  
"Now, darling, Dad swears that he voted for her because of her  
'freshness and originality,' not her cleavage." Brendan was about to say  
more, but then Clive helped Ginny off with her coat and they saw that  
her dress, no matter how demure from the front, was backless down to  
the start of her curvaceous behind.  
"I stand corrected," Margot said.  
"Must admit, it is fresh and original."  
Clive paused to exchange pleasantries with a handsome dark-  
haired man, then approached his son and daughter-in-law. "I see  
Colecourt made it. Nice to have someone with a British accent around;  
gives the place a touch of class."  
"Despite those who drag down the average," Margot said  
under her breath.  
Clive glanced at her. "What was that, dear? Oh ... are those the  
... they are! I say!"  
"Great-Uncle Cuthburt left them to me," Brendan remarked  
casually. "I thought we might as well show them off, rather than let  
them gather dust in a vault."  
"Ooh, Margot, they're gorgeous!" Ginny enthused, without a  
trace of envy. "And this whole big boat, named after you! You're so  
lucky!"  
Margot sighed.  
Clive forced a chuckle. "Better not let Tiffy see them. She  
might rip them right off your neck. Maybe you should let her wear  
them. After all, tonight's her night to shine."  
"I think she'll shine enough. She always does." Brendan  
steered Margot away before a catty comment could escape her lips.  
"Come, darling, we have guests to greet. Isn't that William Harmond?"  
The former senator, nearly as distinguished-looking as the  
senior Mr. Vandermere, shook Brendan's hand while his tiny china doll  
of a wife beamed at them. "Nice of you to invite us, Margot, Brendan."  
"Glad you could make it, Senator."  
"Bill," he corrected. "Or William, if you feel you must be  
formal." He turned to Margot. "No hard feelings about our last  
meeting?"  
"Last meeting?" Clive Vandermere asked, having edged close  
enough to overhear.  
"Oh, she read me the riot act for speaking up in defense of  
gargoyles." Harmond smiled at Margot, and she showed her teeth in  
return and tucked her hands behind her back so nobody could see how  
her fists clenched. "One of them saved our lives, brave little chap."  
"I believe I saw something about that on the news," Clive said.  
"That sinkhole in Manhattan?"  
"It was horrifying," Judith Harmond piped up. She had a voice  
like a bird, high and sweet. "Our car very nearly went in. If that young  
gargoyle hadn't saved us ... why, I don't like to think of what might have  
happened! We should all be grateful for those magnificent creatures."  
Margot couldn't keep her mouth shut any longer. In her most  
drippy, sympathetic voice, she said, "It's wonderful that you can feel  
that way, especially after losing your daughter the way that you did."  
She regretted it immediately, because poor Judith Harmond's  
face seemed to shatter and such stark hurt leaped from her eyes that it  
nearly knocked Margot flat. Everyone else stared in appalled silence.  
Of all people, it was Ginny who spoke up. "Mrs. Harmond, I  
was just going to powder my nose. Would you care to join me?"  
"Yes, thank you," the older lady mumbled, and Ginny  
shepherded her away with a single smoking glare at Margot.  
"Senator --" she knew that calling him by his first name now  
would not win her any points, even though he'd invited her to do so just  
moments before "-- I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned it."  
"You've upset my wife, Ms. Yale. We lost our daughter years  
ago, when she ran away from home. It was only because of a  
_gargoyle_ that we were able to know what had become of her. It was a  
_gargoyle_ that gave her a chance at reaching her dreams. A _gargoyle_  
that made her smile in the pictures I've seen. If she had come home to  
us and wanted to marry that _gargoyle_, I would have gladly given my  
blessing."  
He took a deep breath, and when he exhaled, he was just a  
sorrowful elderly man. "I will not have you mention this to my wife  
again. Not gargoyles, not Julianna, none of it."  
"I won't," Margot promised.  
"Let's go see about some brandy, shall we?" Clive Vandermere  
said, and walked off with Harmond.  
"Damn," Margot breathed, and raised a hand to her brow.  
"Margot, darling ..." Brendan began.  
"I know what you're going to say. You're going to tell me that I  
put my foot in it, two hundred dollar shoes and all. And you're right.  
But you're also going to tell me that I've got to get off this hobbyhorse  
about the gargoyles, and you're wrong!"  
"Now, I'm the first to agree that they're ... well, destructive ..."  
"I should hope so! How many cars, Brendan?"  
He hesitated. "Are we counting the one the blonde woman  
blew up?"  
"Never mind! The point is, they're monsters. All right, so the  
Quarrymen are extremist vigilantes, but they've got the right basic  
idea!"  
"Darling, do we have to talk about this tonight? Let's just try to  
enjoy the party. We've got a ship full of important, influential guests --  
look, here comes Mr. Burns -- and we're hundreds of miles from the  
nearest gargoyle."  
  
* *  
  
"I think the mist is lifting," Broadway said, peering ahead of  
the skiff, the pole clutched in his hands.  
"What do you see?" Elektra asked, standing. "Is it  
Manhattan?"  
"Can't tell. There's some sort of a light -- yow!" The  
exclamation burst from him as a rotating beam of light splashed across  
his face.  
"Mayhap 'tis a lighthouse," Elektra suggested.  
"Might as well head that way and figure out where we are."  
"Remember, wherever it is, it is where Avalon --"  
"Thinks we need to be," he finished with her.  
  
* *  
  
"Hello, Chas!" Tiffy purred, and struck a pose.  
"Oh, hi, Tiffy. Happy birthday."  
Her brother's wife's nephew, good-looking, a Harvard man,  
best catch on the entire boat, barely even looked her way before  
returning to his conversation.  
She deflated considerably, but the sounds of tittering mirth  
from her two best friends spurred her on. She glided up to him and  
twined her arm possessively through his.  
The man Chas was talking to was about the same age and had  
the same economic prospects, but he had freckles and was already  
balding. Not even in the runner-up category. But at least his eyes  
widened appreciatively as they swept over her.  
"I said, hello, Chas. You're exceptionally handsome tonight."  
"Thanks, Tiffy. You look nice too. I like your earrings."  
"Do you?" She fingered the black pearls. "They were my  
mother's. Daddy didn't want me to wear them, but I insisted."  
"I bet you always get your way," the freckled man said.  
"Tiff, this is Stuart Kaplan."  
She tossed him a smile the way she might toss a stray dog a  
scrap of meat. "Of the Boston Kaplans, of course."  
"Of course. May I also wish you a happy birthday? Twenty-  
one, old enough to do anything you like!"  
"Yes, well!" she trilled. "What I'd like right now is the dance  
Chas promised me."  
"I did? Oh, right. Be back in a few, Stu."  
Tiffy smirked at the fuming expressions on Muffy and Babs as  
she and Chas took to the dance floor. "For heaven's sake, Chas, at least  
act like you're enjoying yourself," she pouted.  
"I am enjoying myself. It's a great party."  
"Your aunt did a nice job," she admitted. "Not like my father's  
wedding --"  
"Large prawns. Sometimes I think people will be reminding  
her of that on her deathbed." He danced well, but whenever she tried to  
press her bosom against him, he kept his distance.  
"Charles Winthrop Yale, you're impossible," she declared.  
"What are you so worried about? This isn't a prep school mixer where  
everyone has to have ten inches between them!" She batted her eyes.  
"I'm sure you can manage at least eight!"  
"Ha, ha. Tiffy, sorry, you're very pretty and all, but I'm just not  
interested."  
She was disgruntled but too well-bred to let it show, and didn't  
miss a step. "Mind if I ask why? I've seen the girls they have at  
Harvard; it _can't_ be a matter of looks!"  
He laughed. "It isn't that. For one thing, if I go out with you,  
I'm setting myself up for certain death from Muffy and Babs. I've  
known you long enough to know how you three handle men. You fight  
over them until there's nothing but pieces left, and then go off together  
as chummy as if nothing ever happened."  
She sighed exaggeratedly. "I was _hoping_ this would be the  
perfect birthday! But first Margot gets the emeralds that should have  
been mine, and then Ginny turns out to be the belle of the ball in her  
nothing-to-the-imagination dress --" here Chas gave her a look as if to  
say she should talk, which she ignored, "-- and now this."  
"Please, Tiffy, don't turn on the waterworks. If it makes you  
feel better, Aunt Margot got in a fight with Senator Harmond, and the  
only thing keeping him at this party is the fact that he'd have to swim  
back to his car."  
She brightened, then glowered. "That's just like her, to ruin my  
party! Why, did he comment on those _awful_ lobster?"  
"No, gargoyles."  
Tiffy shuddered, and used it as an excuse to sway closer to  
Chas. "Ooh, don't even _mention_ those things! It's almost enough to  
make a person want to avoid New York altogether!"  
"Hey, we've done it!" Chas said. "We've found something else  
you and Margot agree on! First Ginny, now gargoyles! You'll be doing  
lunch at the country club in no time!"  
"You are so immature, Chas. I don't know why I even bother!"  
She waited in a well-practiced huff for him to apologize, but he only  
stood there with an infuriatingly merry grin that made him seem even  
more handsome. At least, Muffy and Babs, watching the scene, would  
think he was being appreciative of her wit and beauty.  
"Lighten up, Tiff," he said, and chucked her under the chin in a  
gesture too brotherly to be flirtatious. "It's a perfect party and I bet  
people will be talking about it for weeks!"  
  
* *  
  
"Broadway, is that another boat?"  
"Yeah, a speedboat. But it's just sitting there with all its lights  
and engine off. Maybe they're in trouble. Maybe they need help. Let's  
go that way and check it out."  
"Aye, quietly, lest there is some peril."  
They poled the skiff closer, hugging the high rocky point so  
that the lighthouse didn't expose them to the other boat, which similarly  
floated in a pool of darkness.  
Broadway was confident that a gargoyle's superior nightvision  
would let them get a look before any humans on board could see them.  
"Maybe drug runners, weapon smugglers," he whispered  
eagerly.  
"Methinks you watch too many action movies, my friend!"  
Elektra teased. "Mayhap 'tis but some young lovers on a starlit sail."  
He had to reject the first five or six things that came to mind,  
all the while hearing her brother Corwin in the back of his head, asking  
him when he was going to confess his feelings to her. He was glad she  
was looking the other way, because he knew he was either blushing or  
wearing a dopey smile, or, more probably, both.  
He was saved from that awkward moment by a flashlight  
beam, quickly hooded. In that brief pulse of illumination, though, he  
saw something that almost made him drop the steering pole.  
"Hey!" he blurted in a harsh whisper. "Did you see that?"  
"Aye. 'Twas a man there, black of hair yet striped with white."  
"That skunk-stripe is Tony Dracon! What's he doing out of  
prison?"  
The covered light made a faint glow on the speedboat, and  
Broadway's eyes made out the shapes of two other men. All were clad  
in tight-fitting black, and he saw that Dracon was pulling a ski mask  
over his head. Then the biggest of the men moved, and Broadway saw  
his face.  
He nearly fell out of the skiff in his shock. "Brode!"  
As if he'd called the man, Brode's gaze swung searchingly in  
their direction, and for the first time Broadway was aware of how palely  
Elektra's ivory skin stood out against the night. Well, it wasn't the  
_first_ time he'd noticed, but it was the first time there was an element  
of danger about the realization.  
No time for debate. He swept her into his arms and wrapped  
his wings concealingly around her slender form. His coloring was  
darker than hers, nearly invisible in the night.  
"Broadway!" she whispered, startled.  
"Shhh!"  
It just wasn't fair. Here he was, alone with Elektra, hugging  
Elektra, and he couldn't even enjoy it because any second Dracon and  
Brode might tear up the night with laser fire.  
Brode turned away and pulled a mask over his head too. Over  
the water came the muted sounds of metal clinking against metal, and  
then the light was doused.  
"Dracon and Brode," Broadway said, letting go of her but  
keeping his body between her and them. "What are they doing working  
together? Last time we saw them, they were trying to kill each other!"  
"Who are these men? Knaves, ruffians?"  
"Big time knaves and ruffians." He quickly briefed her on his  
many prior encounters with Dracon, still as always feeling that horrible  
churn of guilt he got whenever he thought of how he'd shot Elisa. Just  
as he was finishing describing how they'd foiled Brode's attempt to take  
over Dracon's turf -- and managing to do it without bringing up all the  
stupid macho posturing that had gone on -- another boat came into  
view, and he fell into awestruck silence.  
The only thing he could think of was the opening scene in Star  
Wars. Here they were in their tiny skiff, and Dracon and Brode in a  
boat not much bigger. Then, from around the lighthouse point, came a  
ship. A big ship. That went on and on. And on.  
It wasn't stark Imperial grey, it wasn't bristling with weaponry.  
On the contrary, it was blindingly white and lit up like a Christmas tree  
with string after string of sparkling golden bulbs. Colorful Japanese  
lanterns hung along the decks. The windows all blazed with light.  
Silhouettes of people moved about to the faint strains of classical  
music.  
Elektra gasped in wonder. "What manner of craft be this?  
Forsooth, never have I seen its like! Behold, there are letters upon it.  
The Margot?"  
Before Broadway could answer, the speedboat's engine roared.  
It leaped forward, practically jumping from one wave to the next.  
Broadway could see the men, and if they'd been looking this way, they  
could have seen him too, because that yacht lit up everything for  
hundreds of yards around.  
"Highwaymen?" Elektra said. "Do those knaves mean to  
attack?"  
"That's why Avalon sent us here," Broadway declared. "We've  
got to stop Dracon and Brode!" He poled the skiff to the rocky shore  
and Elektra swiftly tied it off, then they climbed high enough to take to  
the air.  
The speedboat came up alongside the yacht. Dracon and Brode  
swarmed up the side on climbing cables and were hustled through an  
open door by a man in a white jacket. Even from here, Broadway had  
no trouble recognizing Glasses, who he'd once held aloft by the skull  
until the man decided secrecy wasn't all that important. The boat veered  
away, unnoticed by anyone else on board.  
He swooped closer, expecting to hear gunfire and screams, but  
the party continued unabated. He caught an updraft and beckoned to  
Elektra.  
"What is our course?" she asked. "It seems there is a gathering  
aboard, not unlike Oberon's. Such finery -- these folk are highborn and  
wealthy."  
"That must be why Dracon's here. It's a floating buffet for a  
thief like him! Come on!"  
"But, Broadway." She spread her hands and looked down at  
herself. "Would they accept our aid?"  
"We'll worry about the dress code later." He glided down and  
landed on the walkway that ran along the side of the boat and looked  
through the windows, trying to spot trouble.  
He spotted it right away, though it had nothing to do with  
Dracon or Brode. Trouble wore a black Dior gown.  
"Uh-oh," he said. "I was really hoping that was a coincidence!"  
"What?" Elektra landed beside him.  
"That's Birdie's aunt. Oh, crud, and there's her parents and  
grandpa."  
"Is Birdie here, then?" Elektra asked brightly.  
He shook his head. "She wouldn't be caught dead at one of  
these snob-fests. There's Chas, though. Her brother."  
"So these folk are friends of your clan."  
"Not hardly. Margot, the lady with the necklace, hates our  
guts. That guy is her husband. We've banged up his car a few times, and  
it kind of made him upset. Even though it looks like he can afford all  
the cars he wants!"  
"Oh, but aren't they magnificent? Their clothes, so beautiful,  
so colorful!"  
"You should have worn the dress Fox made for you! Then  
you'd fit right in!"  
She blushed a creamy rose hue. "I don't quite dare, truth be  
told. It astonishes me that she hopes to sell such garments."  
"Yeah? Look again." He pointed. "At least four of those  
women are wearing her stuff. That one in the red, and those three  
girls --"  
Elektra gasped. "Upon my word, can it be?"  
"What?"  
"The Sisters, here? In mortal guise? Many times have I seen  
them upon Avalon, for the Magus was no friend of theirs and they did  
come often to gloat his passing. But see! There, and there, and there! I  
am certain of it!"  
"Okay," Broadway said slowly, puzzlement creasing his face.  
"So what are they doing here? And dancing with Birdie's brother? And  
where do Dracon and Brode come into it?"  
He got an answer to one question right on cue. The band  
stopped playing mid-sonata, and as people were turning toward them in  
mild confusion and surprise, their faces suggesting that they were  
expecting one of their own to be comandeering the microphone for an  
announcement or a toast, the the band members whipped out machine  
guns and fired bursts into the ceiling.  
Gunfire and screams. A little later than Broadway had  
anticipated, but here it was. Chandeliers exploded and crystal shards  
rained down on the expensive hairdos of the partygoers.  
"Nobody move!" a voice commanded. Tomas Brode, his  
accent thick as ever, strode into the middle of the room with a weapon  
that looked better suited to sitting on top of a tank.  
Broadway's spirits sank. Dracon and Brode, he could have  
handled. Even Dracon, Brode, and Glasses. But a dozen thugs with the  
military budget of a small country? Bad news, bad news indeed.  
"Everybody cooperate, and nobody gets hurt," Tony Dracon  
added, producing a large quilted sack. "Now, gentlemen, how about  
ponying up your contributions to our retirement fund?"  
None of the guests seemed particularly forthcoming, until  
Brode started jabbing people meaningfully with the barrel of his gun.  
Then, with extreme reluctance, the men gave up their wallets, money  
clips, silver cigar cases, pocket watches, cufflinks, jeweled tie tacks,  
and other odds and ends.  
"Ladies too," Brode said, approaching the trio of young  
women. "Let's not be having discrimination, shall we?"  
Elektra tensed expectantly, and Broadway found himself  
waiting for the moment when the Weird Sisters would shuck their  
disguises and turn Brode into something even more disgusting than he  
already was.  
He was going to have to wait a long time for that moment. The  
three women huddled together until Brode seized the blonde and jerked  
her forward so roughly that she almost spilled out of her fuschia-and-  
black Foxfire gown.  
Incredibly, she shrieked at him, "You can't do this! It's my  
birthday!"  
Brode and Dracon exchanged a glance that was probably  
bemused under their ski masks. "Oh? How old are you?" Brode asked  
"For God's sake, Tiffy, shut up!" Margot Yale's husband --  
Brendan, that was his name, Broadway suddenly remembered --  
shouted.  
"Twenty-one," she announced imperiously.  
"Twenty-one," Brode repeated with a thoughtful nod at  
Dracon. "Well, that is special." And then he whirled her around and  
spanked her on the behind, loud whacks. "One, two, three --"  
Tiffy's screams were indignant and ear-piercing, and the rest of  
the crowd was too flat-out stunned to do anything but stare.  
"Leave her alone!" the brunette cried, taking a bold step  
forward. And a quick, mincing step back as one of the band members  
pointed his gun at her. She clung to the white-haired one, and no signs  
of magic were forthcoming.  
"And one to grow on!" Brode's last spank would have knocked  
Tiffy off her feet if he hadn't been holding her by the arm. He spun her  
around again, peeled his ski mask up to his nose, and gave her a deep,  
invasive kiss.  
"Are you finished?" Dracon asked irritably. He scanned the  
room, then froze as he caught sight of Margot Yale, around whose neck  
gleamed a fortune in emeralds. "Well, well, what have we here?"  
"You sons of bitches!" she screeched, turning to the nearest  
thing at hand -- which happened to be the buffet table -- and the next  
thing Broadway knew, the air was filled with a barrage of canapes and  
finger lobster.  
"Margot, for God's sake!" Brendan cried.  
"They've ruined my party!" And *splat!* went a custard-filled  
pastry against Tony Dracon's chest.  
"Hey!" Dracon protested. He seized up a silver tray of  
mushrooms stuffed with shredded crabmeat and feta cheese, dumped  
them over her head, and used the tray as a shield.  
Broadway started to laugh. He just couldn't help it. This was  
the most expensive food fight he had ever seen. Everyone else in the  
room was still stunned and horrified, except the blonde called Tiffy,  
who tried to slap Brode and succeeded only in tearing the mask off his  
head.  
"Tomas Brode!" Margot gasped, shaking mushrooms from her  
hair.  
An explosion shook the ship, drawing startled cries from the  
passengers. The Margot listed terribly to one side, wallowed like a sow,  
then recovered and picked up speed.  
"There's the signal!" Brode called to Dracon. "Your man's just  
blown up the helm!" He grabbed Tiffy and twisted her arm behind her  
back, making her gasp in pain.  
"Chas, do something!" Tiffy's brunette friend ordered.  
"Just try it, pretty boy," Brode snarled, "and I'll break her arm  
off and beat you with the shoulder end." He emphasized by jerking  
Tiffy's arm higher, and she wailed.  
Broadway wasn't laughing anymore. He threw a quick glance  
Elektra's way. "Guess the ball's in our court after all. You'd better stay  
here."  
"No," she replied instantly. "We must protect these people."  
"Don't expect a thank-you note," he muttered, then folded his  
wings around his head and dove through the plate-glass window. Before  
the shards had finished falling, he had rolled most of the way across the  
floor, come up in a crouch, and bellowed, "Dracon!"  
Everyone whirled toward him, Tony Dracon fastest of all.  
Broadway drew himself to his most impressive height, sucking  
in his gut and spreading wide his wings. "It's over, Dracon!"  
Elektra sprang through the hole he had made, landing catlike  
on a table. She no longer looked the least bit demure and proper, not  
with her eyes glowing jack-o-lantern orange and her pearly fangs bared.  
"Gargoyles!" someone screamed.  
The room trembled on the edge of panic.  
"They're here to help us!" an elderly man shouted.  
"Aaaagh!" Tony Dracon thrust his laser rifle toward  
Broadway. "You again!"  
Just as Dracon pulled the trigger, Margot Yale brought one of  
her two-hundred-dollar shoes up like she was punting a football. A  
scrawl of laser beam scorched the shining hardwood floor, making an  
abstract design all around Broadway's feet.  
"There's the kick in the ass the legal system couldn't give you!"  
Elektra leaped toward Brode, feinted to the left, and whipped  
her tail around his gun. She yanked it from his grasp, making him  
stumble and knocking Tiffy into her two friends.  
Now the panic that had been briefly forestalled by the elderly  
man's assurance boiled over.  
The band members swung their machine guns at the  
stampeding crowd. Broadway hefted a table overhead, spilling a floral  
arrangement and a bunch of napkins with "Happy Birthday Tiffany"  
embossed on them.  
He hurled the table at the band. It flew across the room like a  
comet with a linen tail and scored a direct hit on the platform, the  
instruments, and the armed men.  
Brode swung at Elektra, a glancing blow. She returned the  
favor with a vicious swipe. Had she been a full gargoyle, her talons  
would have taken the side of his face off. As it was, she only laid it  
open in a ragged flap that exposed the cheekbone.  
Dracon was facing Margot now. The barrel of his laser rifle  
was inches away from her face. Despite the kick and the chaos, he was  
keeping his cool. With his other hand, he tore the necklace from her.  
She winced as the clasp dug into her flesh, then snapped.  
"Come on, sugar," he said, stuffing the necklace into his  
pocket. "We need a hostage, and you're elected."  
"Margot, no!" Brendan charged at Dracon, but stopped short  
when the laser rifle put a neat, smoking hole through his collar.  
"Next shot won't miss, rich man," Dracon sneered.  
Broadway was about to rush Dracon when he saw Brode head-  
butt Elektra so hard she crumpled into a dazed heap.  
"Elektra!" His eyes became white supernovas and he was on  
Brode without fully realizing how he'd gotten there. He grabbed the big  
man in a bear hug and squeezed until Brode whistled like a teakettle.  
At that moment, Glasses raced into the room. He was wearing  
a white jacket with gold braid and a silly captain's cap, but he was  
carrying a gun just like the one Brode had dropped. He did a horrified  
double-take when he saw the gargoyles, then swung up his gun and  
fired it into the ceiling over Broadway.  
Huge chunks of plaster and wood crashed down. Broadway  
grunted and dropped Brode, and fell to one knee.  
"I've blown the helm," Glasses yelled to Dracon. "Let's get out  
of here!"  
Broadway shrugged off the debris and got up, just in time to  
take a solid punch in the jaw from Brode. It made his head reel and he  
sagged down again. He fought to keep his eyes focused, and saw  
Dracon, Glasses, and Brode hustling out of the room with Margot Yale  
in their midst.  
Then, cliche as it was, everything went dark.  
  
* *  
  
"The radio's out and we can't regain control of the ship!" one  
of the crewmen said.  
Brendan barely heard and didn't care. "Margot! Margot!"  
"Thank heaven, the Coast Guard!" someone cried.  
"Let me go, you bastard!"  
Brendan saw his wife struggling with the three men as they  
tried to load her into one of the yacht's lifeboats, which his own disloyal  
captain began frantically working to lower.  
Heedless of his own safety, Brendan ran along the deck. He  
shoved mayors, bankers, society matrons, and congressmen out of his  
way, and hurled himself over the rail into the lifeboat.  
He landed on the one called Brode, and as luck would have it  
one of his flailing elbows whacked Brode just over the ear and knocked  
him out.  
"Brendan, you idiot, what are you doing?" his wife said by  
way of grateful welcome.  
"You'll never get away," Brendan announced. "Here comes the  
Coast Guard! They'll put an end to your crime spree!" He pointed  
triumphantly at the approaching vessel, and faltered when Dracon and  
Glasses both began to laugh.  
"Those are our partners, quiche-for-brains!" Dracon jeered.  
Infuriated, Brendan grabbed the first thing he could get his  
hands on. It was the heavy sack of money and jewelry. He swung it, and  
to his surprise it smashed right into Dracon's face and sent him tumbling  
backward and overboard.  
Dracon caught hold of the edge of the boat. The whole thing  
tipped, the ropes that held it squealing in protest.  
"Glasses!" Dracon called, dangling above the water.  
The ex-captain, Glasses, seized Dracon's forearms and held on,  
trying to help him climb back in. Their every move made the lifeboat  
rock and sway crazily.  
"Quick, Margot!" Brendan boosted his wife toward the rail of  
the yacht. "Grab on!"  
"To what?" she complained peevishly, evidently not noticing  
just how heroically he was rescuing her. "I can't reach!"  
Brendan stepped onto Brode's thick chest and pushed her  
upward, realizing as he did so just how many times he'd put off using  
his expensive fitness equipment.  
She finally got the hint and made an effort. Other hands,  
crewmen and guests, came down to help her the rest of the way.  
"Good job, son," Clive Vandermere said, looking over the side  
at Brendan. "Now it's your turn. Upsa-daisy."  
Brendan reached for his father's hand, but just then Glasses  
gave an extra-hard tug, like a fisherman landing a big one, and pulled  
Dracon into the boat. It proved too much for the ropes. One snapped,  
and the stern swung down.  
Dracon, who had just started to heave a relieved sigh, fell into  
the water. Glasses also went in, head first. Brode slipped out from under  
Brendan's feet and both of them looked likely to follow, but then the  
other rope gave way and the lifeboat splashed into the waves.  
  
* *  
  
"Broadway! Hey, Broadway!"  
He groggily opened his eyes to find Chas Yale looking  
anxiously down at him.  
"You okay?"  
"Elektra!" He bolted up.  
"I'm here," she said, rubbing at her brow like a woman filming  
an aspirin commercial.  
"Did he hurt you?" Broadway hitched over to sit beside her,  
and took her face tenderly between his palms. "I'll --"  
"Uh, excuse me," Chas said.  
Broadway flushed and pulled his hands away. Then something  
occurred to him. "Hey, how'd you know my name?"  
"Birdie's showed me pictures of the whole clan. Except this  
lady; she must be new. But, look, we can do the small-talk thing later.  
Those two guys got away, and they took Aunt Margot with them." He  
grinned wryly. "I know she's not your favorite person, but ..."  
"Saving _her_ from Dracon. Talk about the lesser of two  
evils." Broadway helped Elektra up.  
The panic in the ballroom had temporarily abated, but now a  
throng of guests came back in, babbling to each other that the ship was  
out of control and they were headed straight for the point.  
"We're going to crash!" the white-haired girl who wasn't a  
Weird Sister wailed, and burst into mascara-ruining tears.  
"When does Sandra Bullock turn up?" Chas murmured.  
Broadway laughed despite himself, liking this brother of  
Birdie's now that he'd met him. But his laughter cut short when Elektra  
turned to him, her face pale. "She speaks true, Broadway. Behold!"  
The lighthouse was looming large and dead ahead. And if  
anything, the yacht was picking up speed.  
  
* *  
  
"Know you aught of boats?" Elektra asked urgently.  
"Not a thing." Broadway stared at the confusing array of  
equipment, then looked at Chas. "Any hints?"  
"I'm on the rowing team; give me an oar and maybe I could do  
something."  
The problem was further complicated by the fact that there was  
a big blackened and melted patch, and the remains of a bomb.  
The crew were useless, since it turned out half of them had  
been on Dracon and Brode's payroll and jumped overboard to be picked  
up by the stolen Coast Guard ship, and the remaining ones had joined  
the panicked free-for-all that had engulfed the guests.  
People were running forward, running aft, fainting, yelling,  
and generally carrying on. Some had held onto enough presence of  
mind to call for help on their cellular phones since the radio was out,  
and others were trying their luck getting the other lifeboats launched,  
but most were in a heck of a state.  
"I don't suppose you know any magic that might come in  
handy?" Broadway asked hopefully.  
Elektra shook her head. "Remember, I am no sorceress, not  
without a book of spells. But mayhap if we damage the machines that  
make this craft sail ...?"  
"Good idea! Chas, where's the engine room?"  
They started for the stairwell, but their way was suddenly  
blocked by trouble in a Dior gown, though by now it was a badly  
stained and rumpled Dior gown. "Haven't you monsters done enough?"  
"Aunt Margot! You're okay!"  
"Hardly!" she said. "That idiot husband of mine decided to  
play hero. Now, look at this mess! The party's ruined! All thanks to  
these --"  
"Muzzle it, lady, we're trying to save people's lives!"  
Broadway barked, and hustled past her down the stairs.  
  
* *  
  
Tomas Brode regained consciousness to find Brendan  
Vandermere half-sitting on him, kicking ineffectually at Dracon and  
Glasses as they tried to scramble into the lifeboat.  
He blinked to clear his groggy eyes and looked around, seeing  
the yacht on a direct course toward Grafton Point. One Coast Guard  
vessel, the one his men had stolen, was swinging away from it. In the  
distance, many more lights were headed this way. Ships, and even  
helicopters.  
He also saw the speedboat streaking across the waves toward  
them. Heinrich's loyalty was admirable although his good sense could  
be questioned.  
Brode sat up, wincing as the movement triggered new pain in  
his torso, and hoped that the gargoyle's grip hadn't broken any bones.  
He yanked Vandermere around and pistoned a fist into his  
face. The man's head snapped back and he went limp. Brode dropped  
him into the muck sloshing around in the bottom of the boat and turned  
his attention to the others.  
He briefly considered caving in both of their skulls and ridding  
himself of Dracon once and for all. He still loathed the arrogant  
American scum, but Dracon's potential usefulness outweighed the  
satisfaction Brode would get by seeing him sink beneath the waves.  
He hauled them both into the boat, then unclipped a small  
flashlight from his belt and signaled to Heinrich.  
"Well, _that_ sure didn't go as planned," Dracon said when he  
was through spitting seawater.  
"Thanks to the gargoyles," Glasses added. "Where the hell did  
they come from? I recognized that blue one; he's from New York!  
What's he doing in Boston?"  
Dracon shrugged. "Don't care, don't want to know." He picked  
up the bag and held it against his chest. "We got what we came for,  
anyway."  
"Except the woman," Brode said, scowling.  
"Cash first, revenge later," Dracon said. He stood as the  
speedboat zipped alongside, and Brode resisted the impulse to plant a  
foot in his rear and send him over.  
"What about him?" Glasses asked, nudging Vandermere with  
his toe.  
"Leave him." Brode produced a knife.  
"What, you're going to ventilate the guy?" Dracon said.  
Brode ignored him, bent, and drove the knife through the  
bottom of the boat. Water welled up like blood from a wound. He  
worked it back and forth, widening the hole. "There. That will keep him  
busy."  
  
* *  
  
The door was locked and there wasn't time to search around  
for whoever had the key, so Broadway resorted to brute force.  
"Wow," Chas said softly.  
"Indeed," Elektra murmured in such a way that made  
Broadway want to lift lots more heavy things.  
The rest of the yacht was dazzlingly clean and bright, but the  
engine room was just as dark and dingy as Broadway expected, full of  
mysterious machinery and hissing valves and grease-clotted levers as  
thick as a man's arm.  
"Okay, somewhere down here's gotta be a fuel line or  
something that we can break to slow this baby down. But I don't want to  
hit a steam pipe and scald us all to death."  
"Why is it," Elektra said to Chas as Broadway peered at a  
schematic pinned to the wall, "that you alone are not panic-struck?  
Even those who do not fear _us_ fear that this ship might crash or sink,  
yet you seem unconcerned."  
He smiled, the sort of handsome-guy smile that might have  
worried Broadway under other circumstances. "Birdie told me about  
your clan. She trusts you, so I do, too. Either you'll save the ship, or at  
the very least, I'm thinking you'll give me a lift out of here."  
"That we shall do, if nothing else." She returned his smile, and  
circumstances or no circumstances, Broadway fought down a twinge of  
worry. Chas was exactly the sort of guy someone like Elektra should be  
with. Classy, charming, good-looking enough to be on the cover of GQ.  
"Found it!" He squeezed past a big pipe, suddenly afraid that  
he might get stuck and really look like a dolt. He did reach one point  
where he was sure he'd wedge like a cork in a bottle, but he turned  
sideways and got through with only a couple of scrapes on his wings.  
"This should do it!"  
He ripped, pummeled, and gouged until a loud silence fell.  
"You did it!" Elektra cried joyfully, and darted easily through  
the maze of machinery to give him a congratulatory and all-too-brief  
hug.  
"But we're still moving," Chas said.  
  
* *  
  
Her engines were cut, but momentum had the Margot in its  
relentless grip.  
The lighthouse loomed closer and closer, washing the deck  
with sun-bright pulses.  
Slower she went, and slower.  
Those guests that hadn't managed to escape in the other  
lifeboats now started leaping overboard. Coast Guard ships, these ones  
legitimate, swept in to gather them up, but could do nothing to change  
the course of the yacht.  
Slower still, and her bottom was dragging along the seabed.  
Three figures burst onto deck.  
A house-sized boulder punched a long ragged hole in her keel.  
Her prow sheared off the tops of some weathered, stunted trees. The  
fierce light now beamed over the yacht instead of on it, casting it in  
flickering shadow.  
"Hold on tight!" the biggest of the three figures yelled.  
The Margot shuddered as she grated across rocks. Her whole  
front end burst out of the choppy waves and onto the rocky point.  
Two of the figures spread their wings and leaped.  
For a moment, the huge yacht seemed to be rearing like a wild  
horse. Then she came down at an angle and smashed the entire  
lighthouse from its foundations.  
She heeled over to her starboard side. Her stern flirted around  
and wiped out the building that had been connected to the lighthouse,  
sending the keeper and his family fleeing.  
Still, she did not come to rest, but rolled back off the point into  
the distressed surf. A swell picked her up and threw her against the  
rocks again, and she cracked apart like an egg.  
  
* *  
  
"Brendan is going to croak." Chas shook his head  
unbelievingly as Broadway set him down on Grafton Point. "He blew a  
fortune on that boat."  
"There was nothing more we could do!" Elektra said  
defensively.  
"Hey, I wasn't blaming you! If you two hadn't come in when  
you did, they would have hurt, maybe killed, a lot of people. And if  
Broadway here hadn't gotten the engines off, we would have plowed  
into the rocks full-speed. You're heroes."  
"Uh-huh, tell it to your aunt," Broadway grumbled.  
"I will," Chas said firmly.  
"In the meanwhile," Elektra said, "we should mayhap distance  
ourselves from this place, lest in the fever of the moment, those who  
might otherwise be grateful seek to lay fault at our feet." She gestured  
to the approaching emergency rescue vessels and the helicopters. "This  
all has caused quite a stir."  
"Yeah, you're right, we'd better make ourselves scarce."  
"Thanks." Chas offered his hand to each of them in turn. "See  
you around."  
"Will you be well?" Elektra asked. "We could bear you  
elsewhere."  
"No, thanks, this is fine. I've got plenty of rides to choose  
from."  
  
* *  
  
"Fortune was with us, that we left the skiff on this side of the  
point," Elektra remarked as they poled away from the commotion.  
Broadway winced. "I didn't even think of that! Yeah, it was  
pretty lucky!" He sighed. "We could have handled all that better."  
"I thought you were most splendid," she said. "So very brave,  
against those villains with their weapons!"  
"Aw, well ..." he blushed. "You were pretty brave too, going  
after Brode like that."  
She smiled, rubbing at the purple knot that had risen on her  
brow. "Yet he got the better of me. 'Tis true, the clan from whence I  
came had little experience as warriors. No cause for such, until the  
Archmage attacked us. I should like it if you would be so kind as to  
teach me some small measure of your skill."  
"I'd be happy to!" He was so busy beaming at her that he didn't  
see the other craft until the prow of the skiff whammed into its side.  
Elektra rocked forward and clutched the sides. "What was  
that?"  
A low, muffled groan answered her from the lifeboat.  
"Oh, no, it's Brendan!" Broadway said, recognizing the man  
who lay in a semiconscious heap. His head was barely out of the water  
that was filling the boat.  
"We must help him!"  
Broadway dragged him into the skiff. Something fell out of  
Brendan's cummerbund as he did so, something cold and hard and  
jointed like the skeleton of a snake. Elektra picked it up.  
"The necklace of emeralds the rogue called Dracon took," she  
said. "It must have fallen from his pocket."  
"He's okay. Looks like someone used him for a punching bag.  
We'd better turn around."  
"Broadway?"  
"Yeah, I know, it's not a good idea. They'll probably try and  
arrest us. But we can't leave him in that boat; it'll sink before anyone  
else finds him."  
"Broadway, look."  
He looked. "What?"  
"The mist. Behold, how it closes about us! Our task here is  
complete and onward we must go!"  
"But what about him? You can't be suggesting we take him  
with us!"  
She spread her hands. "I suggest nothing. Avalon's power has  
seized us. Even did we turn back, we would not come to the place we  
had left. Mayhap ... mayhap this man shall be needed upon our quest.  
Suppose 'tis Avalon's will that he accompany us?"  
"_This_ guy? Oh, come on, Elektra!" He brought the skiff  
around, but soon was forced to admit she was right. He couldn't see the  
other boats, the rocky point, any of it.  
Only the mist, and the suddenly-gentle sea.  
  
* *  
  
The End. 


End file.
